A Life Interrupted
by Ada C. Eliana
Summary: Post TV-series no OAVs . Rowen returns home only to find that he's not the person he used to be. The war changed him, and he isn't sure who he is, or how to return to his old life.
1. Chapter 1

A Life Interrupted

By: Ada C. Eliana

Author's Note: Not a WIP. Both parts are complete and the conclusion will be posted over the weekend. English translation names are used exclusively in this fic.

Part 1 of 2

* * *

The silence of the apartment mocked him. After weeks of laughter and shouting and too many feet rushing over the same floors, too many voices under the same roof, a tiny, empty, quiet apartment seemed foreign and surreal.

He dropped his meager bag just in front of the door, its thud seeming to echo in the constrained space. He tugged off his shoes, setting them down next to another pair that belonged to him, the ones that had been there since the last day of classes before summer break. His coat hung on the hook and his blue slippers were waiting expectantly, the impression of his foot permanently embedded in them.

He sighed and stared out at the room before him. The tiny kitchen that served mainly as home to the microwave for instant noodles, and pre-made stir-fry, and the rice cooker that he always forgot to turn off was dirty. An opened bag of rice lay on its side, the last few grains spilling from its mouth. A stack of used dishes gave off a foul odor for having sat there for so long.

In the living room the answering machine blinked with missed calls and a stack of magazines lay haphazardly next to the couch, one opened to an article on the aurora borealis, turned towards the couch. The TV remote was on the end table, next to a glass with about an inch of water sitting on the bottom.

He ducked out of there and headed to his bedroom. The sheets on his bed were turned down and clearly slept in, another glass of water adorned the small table in there. The clothes he had been wearing the night before he slept there last were lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. A pile of clean laundry waited by the closet, and the top drawer to his dresser was open.

His last stop on his mini-inspection was the bathroom. He paused at the sight of a blue towel hanging on the towel bar, and another discarded on the floor. Toothpaste had oozed onto the sink from the tube that lay there, and his toothbrush dangled benignly from the hanger. His comb lay on the counter, a few strands of dark hair tangled in it. And when he stared into the mirror the only thing he found out of place was his own face.

He did not know exactly what he expected when he returned, but not this. Everything remained exactly as it had been, the slippers waiting for him to slide them on, the un-finished magazine article waiting to be read, the dishes and the empty rice bag , the comb with his hair and the clothes he had to put away. It seemed as if the apartment had been waiting for him, untouched since he left. But he no longer felt as if he fit in. It did not feel like his apartment, his home, and his things. It was too empty, too quiet, too solitary. He wished something had been different, even one item out of place, one thing moved, one thing changed, one thing to prove that someone had been there since he left. He imagined the others going home, back to their families, back to homes where people lived and breathed for the past month.

He pulled his mind from his dark thoughts and headed back to the kitchen, relatively certain that he would not be able to breathe properly until the mess had been cleaned and the garbage disposed of.

His hands easily moved through the familiar motions of filling the sink with soap and scrubbing the food remnants from the plates, his brain seemed to disconnect, pulled elsewhere, and he was almost surprised to suddenly find his hands still and a stack of clean plates in the drying rack. Trying to avoid the inevitable realization his mind was hedging towards, he moved to do more cleaning.

The food in the refrigerator had long since expired, and he dumped container after container in the garbage can before he moved on to the cabinets. Their bareness was no real surprise to him, how could it be when everything was exactly as it had been? When he had been on his way to the market the day the dark clouds passed over the city?

He grabbed his keys from the hook and shoved his shoes on once more, shutting the apartment's door firmly behind him as he ventured into the city again.

* * *

As he chose his favorite ramen from the convenience shelf, his mind wandered to dinners prepared by Cye or Mia, to fresh foods and vegetables, barbequed chicken and steamed corn, okonomiyaki, and summer rolls. His eyes flitted to where the 'real food' was kept and he almost convinced himself to buy some, to go home and cook himself a real meal, but then the kitchen and the small apartment flashed in his mind again and so he grabbed some cup noodles and pre-made stir-fry and tossed them in the basket. He indulged himself and bought some fresh rolled sushi as well, but it was nothing he hadn't done before.

* * *

The apartment waited for his return in stoic silence, exactly as he had left it. It was always exactly as he left it. There were no voices calling his name, no one greeting him upon his return. He put the food away, belatedly pulling the sushi back out of the refrigerator and heading into the living room with it. He flicked the TV on, all the stations seemed to be playing nothing besides pointless game shows these days, but he didn't really mind, he wasn't turning the TV on to watch it so much as to break the silence around him.

* * *

That night he barely slept, ears perked and jerking awake every time a truck rumbled down the street or someone walked by. His fingers tightened reflexively around the armor orb beside his bed, (a habit he couldn't see himself breaking anytime soon) before he figured out where the sounds had come from, before he remembered that he lived on a main stretch of road. The seclusion of Mia's home was gone, the silence that existed outside of her house had now been transferred to the complete lack of sound inside of his home. He hated the silence inside, but somehow knowing that outside his walls were people and action and life was even worse.

He finally dozed off around 5 a.m., when the birds had just begun to chirp and the sun streamed in through his windows. And when he woke up he stared at the ceiling for too long before remembering where he was.

* * *

As he moved around the apartment everything felt foreign, odd, as if he were in someone else's house, trying desperately not to break anything or disturb the order the owner preferred things to be in. The rumpled clothes were still on the floor, and for a moment he forgot they were his, he forgot about the night he tossed them there, too tired to care about cleanliness, certain that the next morning he would pick them up. That night seemed to him a million years ago, a distant memory that he did not even associate with himself, as if it had been a stranger. As if someone had told him about it long ago.

He reached out to pick the clothes up but then his hands fell back to his sides. This wasn't like the molding food in the kitchen or the encrusted dishes, no, this was something different. It was the symbol of a life interrupted, how he left the apartment and never came back. He was a different person now then he had been, and this place, his 'home' seemed to still be waiting for its real inhabitant to come back.

But this was still his apartment, this was still his life.

He just wasn't sure he wanted it to be anymore.

* * *

I would love to know what you thought.

Thanks for reading!

-Ada


	2. Chapter 2

A Life Interrupted

By: Ada C. Eliana

Part 2

* * *

It was the same old bathroom mirror, same cold tile floor, and the same shadows from where he stood by the sink. But the face that stared out at him from the glass had changed. The eyes seemed darker, colder, like they had seen more than they ever expected to, more than they had been prepared for. There were scars on his body that had not been there when he left, muscle that had toned in record time with so much unexpected use.

He looked at his hands and remembered the heavy feel of the bow, the way he so easily gripped the arrows, pulling the bowstring taut and releasing it into his enemy, the way the bowstring quivered long after the arrow had disappeared. The calluses on his palm are thick and he wondered how long they would last before disuse caused them to fade.

Sitting on the couch he stared at the still cell phone in his hand, willing it to ring, willing one of the others to call him, willing for some end to the solitude and silence of his old life. They promised they would call once they had settled in again. After all, the five of them did not even live in the same city, they had all gone their separate ways, and sometimes Rowen wondered if what they really wanted was complete separation, a way to make the transition back to their old life easier.

Rowen wondered if it was easier for them to go back to it, to pick up where they left up, the pieces of their old life, of the one they were ripped from. They had people waiting for them, people they cared about and who had expectations of what they would do, how they would act. Sure his father would return to the apartment eventually, Rowen knew he was just busy with research, but the fact that everything had been left untouched suggested that his father had not even noticed his absence. At one point in his life that hadn't bothered him, but now, now he just wished someone had thought about him, had wondered about where he went, maybe even worried when he didn't come home.

* * *

He sat in the park, long legs stretched out and hands tapping on the hard metal of the bench. At an adjacent bench two junior high school students sat, hands entwined, eyes locked. He looked away, tried to ignore the mindless chatter of the people milling by him, tried not to think about the rhythm and the hum of the city around him, how he must have once been part of the city's heartbeat, now he just felt left behind.

It was as if some invisible wall separated him from everyone else. He carried secrets he never thought possible, memories and scars that changed him. He now felt he understood what it was like for men who returned from war, how some just couldn't go back to the way life had been after the horrors they had seen, the atrocities that occurred. When you had stared death in the face, when you had been beaten and injured and by all rights tortured, how could you be expected to instantly snap back to a normal life, to be worried about studying for entrance exams and remembering to pick up milk on the way home?

It seemed incredible to him, impossible, unimaginable. Because when he heard approaching footsteps behind him his body tensed and he had to restrain himself from attacking when someone brushed against his shoulder. The sound of girlish laughter brought back the devious smile of Lady Kayura and the promise of pain and defeat. Dark clouds heralded the arrival of an army of darkness and he was so sure as the rain began to fall that he could see a castle hidden away in the clouds.

* * *

He called Sage, but once the blond picked up he found he didn't have the heart to tell him why he called, to tell him that he was lonely, that he felt as if the walls of the too-small apartment were closing in on him, that he wanted nothing more than to run far away from this place.

Instead, he asked Sage how he was, listened to laughter from the other end as he spoke about returning home and his family. Sage was comfortable, Sage had rebounded back to who he had been. Rowen opened his mouth, wanted to say something about fighting, but Sage cut him off, told him he would rather not even think about those times anymore. And so Rowen told Sage that he completely agreed with him, and that he was happy to be home, before cutting the connection. He felt a coldness form in his chest and threw the cell phone across the room. It hit the wall and the faceplate fell off, clattering to the floor.

Rowen buried his head in his hands for a moment, shaking. He felt as though in that simple phone call he had lost Sage for good, his closest friend from the war, the one person he really felt understood what it was like, and now he wanted to never think of it again. He wanted to forget the only reason he and Rowen had become friends at all. He could not bring himself to call anyone else, could not bear it if conversations with them went the same way his and Sage's had.

* * *

He thought some archery would help, that the familiar motions, the need to center himself would make him feel more grounded, feel less like he was flailing about, less like life was sweeping him away with it if he wanted it to or not. He went back to the gym he used to train at, back to the outer area where the archers set up targets and practiced under the bright sunshine. It was early yet, and he was blessedly alone.

However it seemed picking up the bow and arrows was the worst idea he had come up with yet. The instant the arrow whistled through the still air Rowen's vision shifted, and instead of the lone target, all he saw were hordes of soldiers, their soulless eyes staring him down, taunting him. He fired without thought, but for each one he took down there was another and another, and suddenly he was out of arrows, and that never happened, that was impossible. He panicked, his breaths coming in short gasps, his heart beating loudly in his chest as he shoved his hand deeper into the quiver, searching for what should have been there as they barreled down on him.

He closed his eyes as they approached, the smell of smoke and ash they carried with them overwhelming his senses. But there was no strike, no impressive blow that sent him off of his feet. And when he opened his eyes in confusion there was only the target, completely covered in arrows, and the hazy sky beyond it.

He clutched his chest as his heart slowed back down, and dropped the bow and the quiver as if burned. With slow steps, he retrieved the target, ripping the arrows out one by one, barely noticing that the first one he fired had hit dead center, it didn't really matter anymore.

* * *

Mia's caller ID blinked as his phone rang, but Rowen found he could not answer, could not speak to her. He stared at the phone as it finally stopped ringing and chirping announced that a message had been left. He deleted it without listening.

* * *

A week after coming home to the quiet little apartment, Rowen went through the items in his bedroom, a large garbage bag on the floor next to him. He found papers he had written for class, magazines he had been intending to read, and if they no longer strongly appealed to him, he tossed them, one after another. He reached the overflowing bookshelves and went through them as well, stacking the books he no longer wanted, deciding to donate them.

However, it became apparent after he had begun that there were more things he didn't want than things he wanted to keep in the room. Everything he had once wanted so badly, the books, the magazines, the interests he described in his papers, they just no longer had any hold over him. His dream had been to become a scientist, following in his father's footsteps as it were, but now the idea of spending his life poring over books and research made him feel ill.

His future appeared to him as shadowy, filled with cold and darkness. He no longer knew what he wanted, who he was.

A month ago he had died, and when he came back he had no time to contemplate it, only time to fight. A part of him never expected to make it out of the final battle alive.

To even be here was an unexpected gift, and he had no idea what to do with it.

* * *

When he sleeps his dreams are filled with pain, blood, and screams. Fire burns before his eyes and armor clanks, breaking and shattering. The anger, the fear, and the pain overwhelm him, and in the nightmare he collapses to the dry earth, screaming and crying as he does.

But it's all wrong, because as painful as it was, as terrible as everything had been, he had never felt that lost, that hopeless.

Rowen laid in bed, his body trembling, trying to remember things as they were, trying to remember Ryo's encouraging glances, Sage's steadfast presence, Kento's optimism, Sai's caution, tried to remember the five of them together, always together, fighting, bickering, planning, risking their lives. But somehow that's slipping, and all he can think of is the terror and the agony, and now all Rowen can feel is lost.

* * *

A week later his father came home. Rowen was so surprised by the door opening he nearly attacked the older man when he came through the door. Rowen waited for the surge of warmth, the happiness and love of having family with him, but it didn't come. His father asked him how he was, and Rowen quietly responded that he was doing well. He wanted to tell him about how troubled he was, what a hard time he was having, but somewhere along the line, he and his father had gone from father and son to acquaintances. And it just was not proper to voice all of your ailments to an acquaintance, they did not even expect an honest answer to the question in the first place, it merely existed as a polite thing to say.

Rowen watched his father closely as they ate dinner with the mini TV on, wanting for what was probably the first time in his life, to connect with this man he shared DNA with, the only other person to ever live in that small quiet apartment. His father seemed intent on the dumb game show, and Rowen swallowed a bite of his take-out before working up the courage to speak. "Dad… I…. I've been feeling sort of lost lately," he spat out quickly, immediately regretting it, immediately wanting to take it back.

His father's brows furrowed for a moment before he turned to Rowen with what Rowen thought was an indulgent smile. "School's starting again soon, Rowen," he assured him. "Maybe next summer you should take a cram class, that way you won't have to have so much idle time on your hands."

Rowen nodded as if in thanks for this advice and finished eating as quickly as he could. He shut himself in his bedroom and listened as his father padded around the apartment before he finally settled on the couch and turned on the TV.

* * *

When Rowen woke up the next morning his father had already left. A note on the table told him that he had gone to set up an on-site project and didn't know when he would be back. An envelope held a small amount of money and another note reminding him to use his credit card for anything he needed. Even though he expected it, his father's quick exit still felt like a blow to the chest, a blow to the dream of maybe connecting with him, maybe having some reason to long for home like the others had.

* * *

Rowen sat in the back of the café, idly staring at the dark liquid in the cup. Around him people spoke and laughed and Rowen tried to listen in, tried to pretend for a minute that he was like them, that he had people to sit with and laugh and talk. But it was no use, he knew he was alone, he felt it with every fiber of his being. He had lost himself, the person he used to be, the Dynasty, his armor, his whole crazy destiny had taken it from him. Maybe Talpa really had won in the end, maybe Rowen had lost. Because what was the use of winning if he was left with nothing, no dreams, no future, no hopes or aspirations.

Rowen could not go on living this way.

Something had to change.

* * *

Rowen walked determinedly into his bedroom, pulling some clothes from his closet and stuffing them in a backpack. He grabbed his wallet and his father's credit card off of the table and headed for the door. He stopped briefly to put on his shoes, and then took a moment to survey the apartment, to take in all he was about to leave behind. He nodded once and then walked steadily out the door, shutting it firmly behind him.

Rowen walked out into the busy streets, the noise and din of the city. He was unsure of where he was going, but content to at least know that he was going somewhere. The life he left behind no longer held anything for him, so he would seek out his purpose, figure out what the person he had become was meant to be.

Rowen breathed out slowly and smiled before choosing a direction and walking away, leaving the apartment and all of his things, the physical manifestations of a life interrupted, behind him. He disappeared in the city, just another part of the rhythm and hum of the world around him.

The End

* * *

I would love to know what you thought! Thanks for reading!

-Ada


End file.
